


Untangled

by rosa_himmelblau



Series: Starsky's Clandestine Reports [3]
Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 11:48:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9819089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosa_himmelblau/pseuds/rosa_himmelblau
Summary: Starsky's companion to the episode "Murder Ward.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Clandestine Report #101
> 
> This story originally appeared in the zine The Fix no.11
> 
> These stories are not being posted in either their in-universe chronological order or in the order I wrote them. If there's a way of reorganizing them after they're all posted, I'll do my level best to do it, but don't let it worry you. They weren't published in that order either.

What could be weirder than having to take somebody from a hospital to a hospital? Stupid, too, but what choice did I have? I wasn't about to trust anybody at Cabrillo. So I took H to Memorial—after all, who knew what kinda dope Dr. Frankenstein gave him? It turned out to be the same stuff they'd been giving me all along, so it wasn't any big deal, but it sure took a load off my mind. Anyhow, the uniforms took Matwick and Deek downtown. I called Dobey and filled him in, told him I was taking H home and if H was feeling better we'd be in in the morning.

We staggered up the steps to H's apartment, and I helped him inside, and we dropped onto the sofa, both of us exhausted.

"I think I sprained my back, carrying you," I told H, trying to find a comfortable way to sit on his sofa.

He gave me a look, a kind of blurry look. "I think you sprained my back. How many walls did you slam me into? We're supposed to be on the same side, you know."

"I didn't do it on purpose; you know, you're damn heavy?"

"Weakling."

I cracked up. "Hey, how'd Dr. Frankenstein get you doped up, anyhow?"

H frowned, like he wasn't sure what I was talking about. "I don't know. Must have been something in my apple."

That cracked me up, too; I was pretty punchy, and the thought of my partner as Snow White was pretty funny. "Guess I'm gonna hafta give you that old don't-take-candy-from-strangers lecture we learned in the Academy."

H just looked at me, kinda vague. "What are you talking about?"

I touched his hair, feeling like I was somehow taking advantage of him. "Are you gonna be OK alone here for a little while? Because more than anything I'd like to get cleaned up."

H looked around, looking really puzzled. "Why wouldn't I be OK here? This is my apartment, isn't it?"

So I went in and took a shower. I couldn't believe how matted my hair was. I hadn't really looked at myself since the case started—I'd been doped up or tied up or hiding from someone practically the whole time, and I hadn't given a lot of thought to how I looked. This was not good. My hair felt like someone had snuck in in the night and tied it in knots. Not good at all. I washed it twice, but it didn't help much. There was a bottle of creme rinse next to the shampoo and I recognized the scent—Christine must've left it. I'd wondered what had happened with Christine—I knew she and H had quit seeing each other after Terry died, but somehow I could never bring myself to ask. There was about half the bottle left, so I used it all. I stood under the water till my fingers got pruney, but it didn't do any good. So I got outta the shower and got out as much water as I could from my hair, and dried myself off. I didn't wanna put my dirty clothes back on, so I put on H's robe instead.

H was still sitting on the sofa, watching some late news show. When the perky newslady said something about illegal operations at Cabrillo State Mental Hospital, I started laughing. I don't know why; whenever I hear about our cases on TV I start laughing—it sounds so unreal. I mean, we're cops; we don't belong on TV. It's not entertainment, for God's sake—Matwick tried to kill us. (Of course, the newslady didn't mention that. I wondered if Jane would—if she ever came out of the coma.)

H turned and looked over his shoulder at me. "What's so funny?"

I motioned at the TV. "I dunno. It just sounds weird. I wish they wouldn't talk about us on TV."

H turned it off. "You getting paranoid?"

". . . never mind."

I sat on the sofa and began trying to comb my hair. It wasn't easy. H was watching me, seeming fascinated. "What's wrong?"

"My hair's all tangled."

H looked at me for a minute or so more, then he kind of smiled. "Here, sit down on the floor, I'll see what I can do." I checked to be sure he was serious—he was—so I gave him my comb and slid down onto the floor and scooted over in front of him. He spread his knees, pulled me back against him, and very carefully ran his fingers over my hair. "Feels like the Gordian Knot."

"I suppose you think I don't know what that means."

"Do you?"

"Well, no."

H laughed; I could feel his breath against the back of my head and the vibration of his laughter through his knees. It made my blood tingle. "Let me put it this way—when our dog's fur got this matted, we had her sheared."

"I see you coming at me with a pair of barber shears, I'll deck you."

"All right, we'll try it your way." I wouldn't've believed how gentle those big hands of his were. I don't think he used the comb once, and not once did he pull my hair. Who else but my partner could do something like that? The biggest klutz on the West Coast, but he never once pulled my hair.

I thought he'd fall asleep pretty soon—that stuff they shot us up with is pretty powerful—but I guess his adrenaline counteracted it. Anyway, we sat there like that for a couple'a hours, not talking much, H just breathing on my neck and untangling my hair. And once he ran his fingers across my neck, and every so often he'd pull on my ears and laugh. The man's got a weird sense of zzhumor . . . .

Anyway, it was really late by the time he got done. I borrowed a t-shirt and shorts to sleep in, and grabbed the left side of the bed (H sleeps on the right—whether someone's already there or not—he once knocked me on the floor when I tried to sleep on the right side. The only time I ever tried it.) Anyway, he put one arm around me, muttering something about keeping me safe, and promptly fell asleep. Well, we'd caught the bad guys, made it out with our lives, and now my hair was untangled . . . why shouldn't he sleep peacefully?

How could I not love him?


End file.
